For One Night Only
by Milliecake
Summary: When Drusilla finds a way to resurrect Darla, Angel and Buffy enter a race against time to save Connor from his own mother Post NFA
1. Chapter 1

Title: For One Night Only

Author: Milliecake

Email: PG

Season: Post NFA

Summary: When Drusilla finds a way to resurrect Darla, Angel and Buffy enter a race against time to save Connor from his own mother.

Disclaimer: If I could make money from this I would. Oh and they don't belong to me :P

Author's Notes: Just another foray into the Angel world, inspired by the excellent Monolith by John Passarella.

OoOoO

"_You won't let me hurt it, will you? You'll protect it, right? From me, I mean." _– Darla, Lullaby

"Well wasn't that a great show folks, you've all been a fabulous audience, and I'm sure you'll all be just as fabulous tippers on your way out."

The smooth, congenial tones drifted easily through the microphone, rewarded by a spattering of applause from the club's patrons, some already shifting in their seats as they settled tabs, stubbed cigarettes and reached for jackets.

"But before you say your goodnights and begin that long, long journey homewards bound to soft beds and sleepy loved ones," the host continued, a sly glint in his ruby red eyes as his audience hesitated, "I have one last tale to regale all you good people with." He waited until they had resettled, casually taking a sip from a glass of water, knowing that once piqued curiosity was a hard thing to put down. But he specialised in satisfying that particular cat killer.

"For me, it began in a bar not unlike this one," he began, gazing through tendrils of blue smoke, not meeting any eyes, neither the kind that came in twos or, in the case of the il-kak demon at the back, fours.

Instead the host was looking back, to a time when a beautiful, doomed blonde had walked through his doors and sang sweet and sad, just like an angel…

"Well not _the_ Angel," he told his audience, with a slight grimace. "Our hero in shining leather was many things, tone deaf being one of them. But our harlot turned starlet had soul…right up until it was plucked out by our very own Mary Ann Cotton, Drusilla. Now Drusilla, as we all know, put the whack in wacko, never big on the whole sanity thing that one. But she was big on family. After all, mom and pops were the ones who turned her in the first place…right after killing everyone and everything she ever loved of course. And as that age old saying goes, we really can't choose our parents."

_Or dismember, decapitate, defile, decimate_, the host added silently, wistfully, thinking of his home.

"Even if they are spawned from the depths of hell itself," he said, then lightly with a wry smile, "But enough about my own mother."

It earned him a few knowing chuckles at that and he sipped his water.

"But for Drusilla none of that mattered. The girl loved her family…well as much as a psychopathic, homicidal, insane, undead demon could. So when a little bird let slip a little secret to our Little Miss Maniac - one our champion of champions Angel had paid dearly to keep - Dru realised there was a way to bring her little family back together." The green host shook his head. "And as far as reunions went, this one promised to make the Mansons look like Little House on the Prairie…"

OoOoO

Pretty patterns, swirling, twirling, like the red ribbons her mummy had once put in her hair. The thought, or rather what passed for sane thinking, gave Drusilla pause and she smiled dreamily as she gazed at the crimson streaked carcass at her feet. The man had put up a fight but the blows from the chair, the paperweight, and finally his fists had only made Drusilla giggle and laugh, harder and harder until she stopped short, literally breathless.

Forgetting that particular condition was part of her nature, fright took over and she hadn't liked that at all. Not one little bit. The man had been very naughty to do that to her, she'd told him so as she cut him to pieces. She told his eyes last, his bad staring eyes, before putting them out.

And now he resembled red ribbons, pretty red ribbons just like her mummy had once braided into her hair. She was wondering if she should put his ribbons into her hair when a noise from the backroom startled her out of her daydreaming and she crossed quickly to the door, scenting the human woman inside with glee.

"_To bed, to bed says sleepy head_," she cooed softly, opening the door, creeping inside on little cat feet. The air was staler here, here where they'd hidden their secrets. Secrets were rude. Secrets and trickery had kept her family from her. But she had tricks of her own, the man in the moon had taught her she remembered.

A whimper to her left whipped her head that way and Drusilla grinned, eyes large and dark and fathomless. "_Put on the pan says greedy Nan_," she continued to singsong, approaching the terrified woman, who was cradling some of her secrets to her chest.

One in particular caught Drusilla's eye. _I must be a crow_, she thought, dizzy for a moment, t_o take the pretty parcel back to my nest._

Hooking her fingers, Drusilla made pecking motions at the woman, who simply closed her eyes before the final verse of the nursery rhyme was sung.

"_We'll sup before we go_."

OoOoO

"You hungry? I was thinking we could take in some dinner, a movie, midnight stroll along the…oh boy."

He fell silent as a long, slender leg slid over his thigh until her whole weight was resting in his lap, her hands upon his shoulders, blonde hair tumbling down and tickling his face.

"I was thinking we could maybe order in," she replied, a mischievous glint in her eyes, a lascivious smirk about her mouth.

Angel twitched at that…in more places than one, even as his arms cradled her. "We could…do that," he replied, with some difficulty now as her hands slid down his bared chest. "Alfresco dining in this town is highly overrated. Or so I've heard."

In the background, the flickering light from the television played against the wall, the muted sound leaving the lovers cocooned from the outside world.

He would never forget the moment she had arrived back in his life, Heavensent or rather Willowsent when the powerful witch had sensed the brewing storm. A back alley in the pouring rain, the demonic forces of Wolfram and Hart bearing down upon him, Spike, Illyria and the injured Charles Gunn. He knew it was over the moment he saw the frenzied army, but he'd always fancied the blaze of glory notion and with wings beating somewhere furiously above, an almost manic obsession had washed over him to slay the dragon before he was torn apart.

But the battle hadn't even engaged when he realised they were no longer alone. He caught her scent first, then a glimpse of hair and almost wept when he saw she'd brought him an army of her own. Girls, some young, some old enough to be entering womanhood climbed the fence, dropped down from fire escapes and rooftops.

"Guess the cavalry's here," Gunn had said, grinning through bloody, rain-drenched features.

And then the battle had begun in earnest, no time for hellos, no be carefuls or words of gratitude for saving their collective butts. Angel swung his axe until his arms were little more than dead weights, the infusion of mystical blood he'd drained from Hamilton no longer sustaining him, until the ground beneath his feet was mired in gore and filth. But he'd slain his dragon. And Buffy was there after, holding him so tight.

Spike left that night, no Shanshu for either of them and no Buffy either. He'd left taking Gunn and Illyria with him, going after the only surviving member of the Black thorn, Cyvus Vail.

The last puzzling piece after they're defeat of Wolfram and Hart. Illyria had been furious when she discovered she had been duped, but Vail was a master of deception. Whatever illusion he had performed, both his supposedly headless body and that of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce had vanished without trace.

Angel couldn't afford to let himself hope Wesley was somehow still alive, the first bout of grief had almost torn his heart, even with Buffy at his side. But the others had found some promising leads and if the last phone call from Gunn was anything to go by, they were closing in on their quarry. They'd discover the truth soon enough.

"What are you thinking?" Her nail traced a fine line down the side of his face, raising the fine hairs on his arms at the simple pleasure of her touch.

He smiled, easily. "I was thinking how lucky I am to have you. To have us. How close it came…"

"Sssh," she breathed, echoing his smile. "I had to come back. The timer on my oven had dinged. I was ready."

More than ready.

She'd spoken to Spike first, alone, but minutes later the blond vampire had stormed out, grabbing his coat, almost jauntily announcing that he was buggering off to go find out if that pansy Wes had come a cropper after all. Illyria had been quick to demand participation. Angel learned later they'd swung by the hospital after and sprung Gunn, still healing from his wounds.

Alone with Buffy, half-elated, half-afraid, Angel had listened with a sinking heart as she told him whatever they once had, it was over. High school crush, first time love yadda yadda. So consumed by grief, the knowledge he'd lost her, he almost missed her next words.

"So, now that this cookie is baked, think maybe we could start afresh?"

The high school romance was dead, the flare of that passion dying out over the years. But she was willing to discover if something new, something more meaningful and stable could come of them.

It hadn't happened right away. His love affair with Nina had gradually died, Buffy had taken Dawn to England to visit Giles who was helping to rebuild the Watcher's Council. But the night she came back there had been nothing hesitant, nothing shy or awkward when she revealed the charm that would make him exempt from losing his soul when they finally got around to rediscovering each other, reclaiming something that both had needed for so long.

"And I'm always ready," Buffy continued, tracing the shell of his ear with her tongue. "Kinda like the energiser bunny."

It drove him insane when she did that and she knew it, took delight in his torment, but never his pain. And he knew it was real between them, something he'd dreamed of for so long. The Shanshu prophecy might be gone, but in almost every way they were partners, equals, whole and he was content with his lot.

"Buffy, don't," he moaned, squirming slightly, but she was strong, held him fast. Then softer, "Buffy…"

"Mmmmm," she echoed, sounding for all the world as if she was savouring her favourite chocolate ice cream. "…Giles!"

Disjointed at hearing the name of her former Watcher, Angel blinked open eyes that had drifted closed and sat up straight, wondering if his vampire hearing had misfired.

"Giles?" he repeated, bewildered, and the image that came into his mind wilted his passion, among other things, instantly. "Giles?" Of all the names, with the exception of Spike, that she might moan in the heat of passion…

Seeing his shocked look, realising what she had said, Buffy laughed and turned his head towards the television. "He's on the news," she explained, sliding off his lap to grab the remote.

"Oh. Here in San Francisco?" He opened his arms as she sat down next to him, curled up against his side as they watched the report unfold. "I thought he was in Thailand."

"…two victims of what appears to be a random killing," the male reporter announced grimly. "The police are following up on several leads, but still have no motive. However, new evidence has emerged in the last few hours that the couple owned several items said to be used in pagan worship and voodoo practice, alongside black magic paraphernalia suggesting that these murders may have a more sinister and ritualistic meaning."

Footage taken earlier as the victims were removed by ambulance showed an older, bespectacled man being interviewed by a law officer off to one side.

"Giles," Angel said, watching the hunched, rain-coated figure. "Think these people were friends of his?"

"Yeah. I think I'd better see if I can track him down, make sure he's ok." She sent him an apologetic look as she reached for the phone, knowing they're special evening was about to be postponed yet again.

Angel reached and gently plucked the phone from her hands, swiftly kissing her before dialling out. "Let me handle this," he said. "I've still got contacts in this area, shouldn't be hard to find him."

Her grateful smile was all he needed.

OoOoO

Mild evening gave way to the early night, a time when both vampire and Slayer were restless. For much of his life, undead and otherwise, Angel had spent his time under the veil of darkness, the stars, the moon his constant companions. And Buffy had become as comfortable there with him over her years patrolling as Sunnydale's champion. He was still amazed she'd made it through High School let alone attended college with the little sleep she'd managed to snatch.

Usually by now they'd be patrolling the streets, alert to the dangers that lurked in the underbelly of the city they were visiting, listening for cries of alarm and fear, or snarls and howls of would-be predators. But San Francisco was under the watchful eyes of a pair of slayers, both girls capable and relentless Buffy had told him, a hint of pride in her voice. Already the vamps were losing the battle and moving out to less hostile climes, the more vicious of the local demons following suit.

"I just can't believe they're both gone." Taking off his glasses, Rupert Giles carefully polished each glass lens, an action he had diligently performed eight times now since beginning his tale. "To have survived every apocalypse only to come to this. Hardly seems fair somehow."

Inside the small hotel room, Angel knew it was that, more than the killings, which bothered the former Watcher. He'd felt the same anger and grief himself over Wesley's supposed, pointless death so close to victory. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched as Buffy took her former mentor's hands, stilling his distressed movements.

"We'll find out who did this," she promised, steel in her voice.

Giles patted her hand, hooked his pristine glasses back into place. "I know you will Buffy. It's just the sheer bloody unfairness of it all. Countless slayers are out there now, the tide is turning and two of our own are slaughtered by vampires just days before their 30th wedding anniversary."

So that explained his presence in San Fran, Angel realised. Not much to celebrate now.

"So it was vampires," Buffy was saying, sounding resigned.

"I believe so. I have a friend in the forensic department, the preliminary report suggested bite marks to the throat of one of the victims."

Recalling the earlier news, Angel put in, "The reporter on the news said magical items had been found in the house. Anything in particular the perps might have been after?"

Sighing, Giles shook his head. "Richard and Amelia used to run a store for some of the more obscure arcane artefacts, but that was years ago. The only things they kept in recent times were those of historical value, books, scrolls, trinkets once possessed by the more famous, or rather infamous scions of the demonic world. A personal museum of sorts if you will."

"So maybe some grouchy vamp decided he wanted his nose hair clippers back?" Buffy said, pulling a face.

Graveyard humour had always been something of a given when it came to their line of work, but something she said struck Angel.

"Do you have any idea what they might have had in their possession?" he asked Giles. "Something precious or of sentimental value to their killer?"

"I think they had one of Angelus' shirts," Giles replied, after a moment, catching Angel off guard. "But they didn't exactly keep a stock list. Of course I'd seen a few of the items which they kept on display when I visited their home, but nothing in particular comes to mind at the moment."

Sensing they'd come to the conclusion of Giles' story, Buffy rose, touching the older man's shoulder. "You look tired, get some rest."

He nodded and smiled wryly. "If Willow could come up with spell to eradicate jet lag I would be immensely grateful. Maybe in the morning something will come to me."

"A shirt?" Angel echoed, lagging behind the current conversation. "They kept one of my old shirts? Like a memento kinda thing?"

Buffy smiled at that.

Catching her indulgent look, Angel straightened. "Uh, I mean me and Buffy will start checking leads tonight, see if we can pick up the killer's trail."

"Good," Giles said and he really did look exhausted. "And good hunting, let me know if you find anything."

As they left, Angel paused and turned back. "You didn't happen to notice if it was Italian silk with black buttons and these little…?" before Buffy firmly escorted him out the door.

END OF CHAPTER ONE


	2. Chapter 2

Title: For One Night Only

Author: Milliecake

Email: PG

Season: Post NFA

Summary: When Drusilla finds a way to resurrect Darla, Angel and Buffy enter a race against time to save Connor from his own mother.

Disclaimer: Can I keep them? Please? Fine, they don't belong to me :(

Author's Note to Self: Do not upload under the influence.

OoOoO

High pitched laughter echoed across the manicured lawns, through the silent school buildings before it was quickly hushed.

"Ssssh," the boy said, still trying to contain his own laughter. "You'll get us into trouble."

"I just can't believe Professor Simmons actually said that!" his friend said, shocked and highly amused, causing one of the girls to break down in a renewed fit of giggles.

"That wasn't even the best part," the first boy said, grinning. "After he said it he did that weird thing he does with his…"

The slam of a campus door caused all five teens to jump, emerging from their huddle to see if they had been spotted.

"Quick, run," the first boy hissed, sprinting into the shadows on the other side of the building.

Breathless, they waited a few moments, but no one came looking for him them. There would have been hell to pay if they'd been discovered, both from the faculty and their parents, more so as it wasn't the first time their little gang had been caught out late after dark.

"One of these days you're gonna get us all kicked out, Connor," the second boy said, but he smiled at his roommate as he said it.

The ringleader of the group feigned surprise, placing a hand upon his chest. "Moi?" For a moment he represented angelic innocence, with guileless blue eyes and a solemn demeanour. It didn't last and he grinned impishly. "Come on, it's not like we're out here smoking or doing pot or drinking. You'd think they'd lighten up."

"Yeah," one of the girls said, huddling further into her coat, shivering in the night air. "My folks still worry I'm into cult worship, drugs or college orgies every time my grades take a little slide."

"You're cold Jeanie," Connor said, once the quiet, sympathetic laughter had died down.

"Why, wanna warm me up handsome?" she asked, batting her eyelashes, causing another round of hilarity.

Once her words might have caused Connor to blush and squirm in embarrassment, but he was getting used to it. Even enjoying the flirtatious attention he now regularly exposed to. In high school the jocks had scored all the pretty girls, which Connor had been fine with. With the exception of Tracey and a few others, most had been vacuous, nail obsessed drama queens too self-absorbed to bother with the scrawny teenager he'd developed into.

But as soon as he started attending Stanford, it was like some hormonal beacon had gone off without warning. Girls suddenly thought he was cute as well as smart and funny and regularly sought his company for some one on one cramming. Though, embarrassingly, the occasional guy did too, something about his ambiguous looks Jeanie had once said. College was, as they said, a time for self-discovery, though in some things Connor would rather have remained ignorant.

"Come on, I'll walk you back to your dorm," he suggested to the girl, offering her his arm.

The others soon fell into step behind, chatting in low voices about classes, their upcoming midterms, whether their folks would let them go to Florida for the Spring Break parties.

"How come you're not cold Connor?" the girl at his side asked abruptly, fingering his t-shirt and light overshirt, almost causing him to stumble mid-step. "I'm freezing."

She hadn't meant anything by it, he quickly realised, just a casual question to make conversation. But for him, the answer was a minefield, knowing that if he took a step in the wrong direction, it might all blow up in his face. Demon, vampire, spawn of some hellish scheme to destroy the world…or just an ordinary college kid with super powers.

He settled on the simplest of answers. "I'm a guy," he said with a shrug and a cocky grin. "We're impervious to the cold."

She raised her eyebrows and tossed a meaningful look backwards, to the other boy in their group huddled within his jacket as he linked arms with the two girls at his side. "Yeah, right," she snorted. "Must be something to do with metabolism. I've seen you eat and quite frankly it defies the laws of physics that you're not as fat as the Pillsbury Doughboy. I just can't understand why you're so skinny."

"Hey," Connor said, scowling. "I am not skinny."

"Awww don't get all grouchy on me Con," she teased. "It wasn't like it was a criticism. Just that most girls would kill to have a body like yours."

"I know," he said, then with a grin. "Preferably naked and on top of them…" Laughing, he ducked her swatting hand. "Thought you wanted me to warm you up."

"Hmmm think I might just have to settle for my teddy bear tonight."

"I could be your teddy bear."

An explosive sigh from one of the other girls interrupted their flirting. "Will you two get a room already?"

They paused at the visitors' car park, the area dark and windswept, most of the lamps above having been snuffed out either by over zealous vandals or some kind of power surge. At this time of night, it was usually deserted except for the nightshift vehicles and the occasional parent called by the college to come deal with a child's sudden crisis. Even so, none of the girls would walk there alone, the isolation, the parked cars ideal for what they had unhesitatingly termed the rape ride.

But to Connor's surprise and instant worry a woman was standing on the verge, looking around as if lost, as if she hadn't seen the welcoming glow from the main building's reception area or the lit signs directing the way.

"She must be a visitor," Jeanie whispered, but even though she barely made a sound, the woman abruptly turned to look right at them.

"I hope so or we're in deep shit for being out this late," Connor whispered back.

He forced a smile as the woman approached, no harm in sweet-talking his way out of trouble if she was faculty. Which he somehow doubted as she drew near. Too old to be a student, he reckoned, she was far too young to be a parent. He'd have guessed she was one of the night staff if it wasn't for her wacky clothes. Gothic in an old Anne Rice type of fashion, mismatched in mental patient out on release, she regarded them all with dark, pretty eyes, then seemingly dismissed each one before settling her gaze solely upon Connor.

"Hello my young poppet," she greeted softly, her English accent surprising them all.

"Hello," Connor responded, with a short nod. He didn't know why but he was getting creepy vibes off the woman, a sudden _wrongness_ that didn't settle at all within him. "Help you with something?"

"Oh indeed." She glided closer, pressing her hands together as if in prayer and Connor felt the others behind him draw into each other. So he wasn't the only one feeling the weirdness the woman seemed to exude. "My carriage is being very naughty at the moment, it won't growl for me."

"Your what now?" he asked, blankly.

"She means her car, dude," the other boy suggested, quietly. "I think."

"She's nuts," the girl at Connor's side breathed into his ear. "Please, let's go, her mental patient act is giving me the creeps."

Connor couldn't have agreed more.

"Do _you _know how to make it growl?" the woman asked Connor.

"No, sorry," he lied, quickly. Too quickly. He knew a bit about cars, not much though, but he wasn't intending to stick around the crazy lady long enough to find out if he could fix hers. Still, it wasn't in his nature to leave anyone high and dry. "You could try inside the main building," he suggested, pointing. "They have pay phones you can use to call the autoclub or whoever you're with."

"Very well," she said at last, the pause showing Connor she had seen through his lie. "I'll be sure to tell them how helpful you've all been to this poor poppy."

As she turned away, Connor's roommate grabbed his arm. "Man, if she talks we're severely screwed," the boy hissed. "Can't you just like, you know, take a look at her damned car? She's probably left the handbrake on or something."

The woman had paused, listening over her shoulder and Connor gritted his teeth, tugging back his arm. His friend was right, but somehow he had a gut feeling the woman was blackmailing him into this and that he didn't appreciate.

"Ok," he told her, stepping away from the others. "But I gotta get back to my room soon, so if I can't fix it, you make your call and uh…not mention me or my friends were helping you out, ok?"

She turned back to him and smiled, coquettish. "I wouldn't dream of it, my young lovely."

She held out a gloved hand which he uneasily ignored, turned back to his companions. "Won't be long guys," he told them with a grimace.

"Con, what if she's a psycho?" Jeanie asked in a whisper, concerned.

He spared the woman a quick glance, decided she was either a handful of fries short of a happy meal, some kind of arts post-grad or high on drugs. Possibly all four. But he shrugged, whispering back, "I can take care of myself. See you guys soon, I promise."

They didn't want to leave him alone with her, he knew. But neither did they want to stick around. There was something about mental illness that made most people shy away, but Connor felt he had a handle on it more than most.

Sometimes, being inside his own head was like watching someone else's life and being able to diagnose each and every screwed up thing that had happened to them to make them how they were, without actually letting any of it touch him. His old memories were mercifully hazy still, his new ones of a stable and happy childhood, loving parents and kid sister enabling him to stay detached from the bad ones, stay sane and healthy.

But maybe that was why the woman was weirding him out so much. Since his visit to Wolfram and Hart six months earlier, culminating in the return of his other life's memories, everything just that little bit odd or out of place seemed to jar within him, like a broken bone not fully healed. So he did his best to shy away from anything out of the ordinary, suppress strange and frightening instincts that tried to surface at those times.

The only aberration to that had been his second revisit to his old life, something he'd needed to do the moment his real father had suddenly showed up at the coffee house with apocalypse fairly written across his features. But after the fight inside the law firm Connor had done as Angel had asked, heading home as fast as he could, knowing if the end truly was coming, he'd need to be there to protect his parents and sister.

He never went back, though he'd heard that Angel had survived. The overwhelming relief at the news had taken him by surprise and, embarrassingly, his mother had caught him crying at the kitchen table over feelings he couldn't even begin to identify. He'd lied and told her his break up with Tracey had hit him harder than he'd realised in order to stem her fussing.

As the crazy lady led the way, Connor could hear his friends' whispers from a distance, a gift he'd assumed was normal for most people his entire life, until he'd discovered who he truly was all those months ago. He'd taken so much for granted, his hearing, his speed, hadn't even realised how incredibly strong he was until his first fight with a demon of all things. He was lucky he'd never lost it back in high school and rammed some poor kid's head into a locker.

Further out in the parking lot a car sat alone, shrouded in darkness. "You know how to pop the hood?" he called back over one shoulder, more to break the crushing silence than any effort to find out what was wrong with her ride.

Then slammed to a halt as his exceptional night vision took in the scene before him.

A man and a woman were already inside the darkened car, but lacking any kind of animation, propped up in their seats, eyes staring emptily out over the parking lot. Heart leaping out of his chest, Connor saw both their throats were gaping open and his nose twitched, scenting the rich smell of iron, of blood.

"What?" he began, stumbling back slightly, panic building then racing outwards with lightning speed.

Something within him flared to life, instincts from the past he had furiously tried to quash. His body responded before his mind could override it, before he even knew what he was doing, turning and raising a fist…

In time to catch the iron crowbar across his head, sending him crashing to the hard concrete below.

"Little brother," he heard the woman coo, a cold hand stroking the side of his face as pain ricocheted around his head like a bullet, as he writhed weakly on the ground in agony. "So warm, so _alive_."

The darkness was fast closing in, though Connor struggled for clarity, knowing his only chance lay in getting up, getting away from her.

"But me and grandmummy will take good care of you, baby brother, drain you dry to the last drop til you're all empty." Her black eyes were swallowing him whole as she spoke, as her red lips stretched in a beauteous smile. "Til you're like us."

Connor made one last monumental effort to remain awake, to get to his feet and run as fast and far as he could. Her visage changed and he tried to cry out, the dreamlike memories of his past existence rising upwards in recognition.

_Vampire_! he thought, desperately, before the crowbar was lifted and brought down once more with finality.

OoOoO

The tarpaulin fluttered in the slight breeze, revealing a brown muzzle caked in dirt, the fur matted and grizzly with drying blood. Buffy lifted her coat sleeve to her nose and mouth as they passed the pitiful mound, where some thoughtful soul from the police department had sought to cover the poor animal. The smell was bad though, the vamp had eviscerated the creature, but no one had bothered to clear up the family pet's remains as yet.

_Bongo_ the large food bowl by the back door she read as Angel tore away the yellow tape around the crime scene and broke the lock. Inside the house was cold, dark and a mess. The police had torn through the place with their usual ruthless efficiency, dusting for prints, boxing up anything that might give them a promising lead or a future story for the news stations. The rest, the overturned tables and chairs, the broken lamp, the shattered mirror in the hall, spoke of a vampire's penchant for destruction.

Angel gingerly stepped over broken glass, then hesitated, raising his head. He could smell something, she knew, and by the look in his eyes it was all too familiar and unpleasant.

"In here," he said, quietly, leading the way into the sitting room.

It had been cosy once, Buffy saw, even without the benefit of lighting. A real fireplace sat against one wall, recently used; a picture of an older, smiling couple and a playful dog between them resting on the mantlepiece above. The décor was bland and unassuming, nothing to indicate the occupants had been anything but normal, law-abiding citizens.

As she stepped further inside, she caught sight of the large brown stain marring the cream-coloured carpet. Similar splashes bedecked the couch, the walls, and in the dark it was hard to tell if it was even blood, but Buffy knew.

"Nasty," was all she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Brutal," Angel agreed, bending down to inspect the mess. "Even for a vampire. Giles' friend put up a fight though." He ran a hand over the broken chair where the victim had attempted to break off a makeshift stake.

"They knew what they were up against," she added, softly. "What I don't get is why they invited the vamp inside in the first place?"

Something caught Angel's eye and he straightened. "Maybe they didn't have to."

The door to the backroom had been closed, displaying a little bronze sign on its front. Squinting Buffy could barely make out the writing that Angel was staring at.

"'Welcome to all ye who enter'," he read off, then sighed. "Here's the invite." He glanced back towards the windows, displaying a view of the darkened garden beyond. "The vamp could see right through to this, took it as permission to enter the house."

"That counts as an invite?" Buffy asked, surprised there was still something to learn about vampires even after all her years of slaying. "Then what about all those welcome mats we see on people's front porches?"

"Those? They'll work too. The company that makes them is run by vampires."

He opened the door and carefully stepped inside as Buffy hesitated. "It so does not," she said, after a moment, frowning, before following. "You're kidding, right?"

He didn't answer, was instead gazing about in something akin to wonder. The backroom had been less touched by the violence, though made all the more menacing by the surrounding paraphernalia. The objects themselves appeared innocuous enough, sitting in lovingly crafted display cases; a crow's feather, a cowboy gun, an old Barbara Streisand record.

Buffy stopped at the last one in curiosity, reading in the dim light the gilded sign. "' Original. Played by Lao the Black during the infamous Chu-Chu Club massacre, 1979'." It was signed, by both singer and the massacre's organiser. "Ewww."

"Yeah, that whole club thing was pretty ugly," Angel said, absently, as he browsed the other shelves. "I remember hearing about it for weeks."

"I meant ewwww his taste in music," she replied, moving on to the next case in which a crystal resided. "'_Amoric _crystal used by the warlock Nathaniel Parker to coerce Lee Harvey Oswald into shooting President John F. Kennedy, 1963'. Wow."

"This is amazing."

"If you're into conspiracy theories I guess."

"No I mean this, look." Standing before a floor length case, Angel was touching the glass. Inside an old coat, shirt and waistcoat had been pinned up for display, the fine clothing barely touched by age. "Giles wasn't kidding. They really did have one of Angelus' shirts."

"Gotta hand it to him, he was a snappy dresser," Buffy said, on tiptoe as she peered over his shoulder.

Angel paused at that. "You're saying I'm not?"

"Oh, no, no," she was quick to reply, searching for the right words. "I mean he was, you know, evil and twisted and…"

"Knew how to dress better than me," he finished for her.

"Not better, just more…eviller," she corrected, then quickly turned to the next case to cover the lameness of her answer, "Oh look this one is even more…empty."

"Empty?" he echoed, with a frown, noticing the empty placeholders inside the case. "'Original. Dress worn by Darla, reign of Angelus and Darla, Italy 1771'. I remember that time, Darla wanted to see the Sistine Chapel so we took a back inn along the _Viale Flaminio_. Then Holtz showed up and things just went…what?"

Arms folded, mouth pursed, Buffy looked peeved. "Care to share how you both came to lose your clothing?"

Fidgeting under her sharp gaze, wondering how the tables had turned against him so fast, he stumbling replied, "It was…I mean we were…Darla and I…Italy you know." At her raised eyebrow, he abandoned defensive, went for logical instead. "Anyway, it's not like I was cheating on you. Your great-great-great-great grandmother hadn't even been born."

She didn't look particularly mollified, but dropped the subject anyway. "So the dress is gone. Think this is what the vamp was after?"

"Nothing else looks missing," he agreed.

"So we have what, cross-dressing vampires now?"

"Nah, just one that's mad as a bloody hatter," a new voice suggested.

Without warning the lights flickered on and they turned swiftly towards the newcomer. He raised a cool eyebrow at the stake that had sprung automatically to Buffy's hand, then glanced up at her.

"You already tore my heart out, luv," the blond vampire said, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway. "Don't think there's anything left to stake."

Spike.

END OF CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

Title: For One Night Only

Author: Milliecake

Email: PG

Season: Post NFA

Summary: When Drusilla finds a way to resurrect Darla, Angel and Buffy enter a race against time to save Connor from his own mother.

Disclaimer: Not mine, poopy

OoOoO

"Spike." The utterance was laced with undisguised displeasure as Angel regarded his former rival. "What are you doing here?"

The blond vampire didn't answer, instead sauntered into the room, seemingly oblivious to his less than welcoming reception. He'd lost none of the cocky swagger in the months that had passed, running an irreverent, black fingernail over the wooden grain of one case.

"Interesting set up they had here," he commented, lightly and Angel felt centuries-old annoyance resurface as it always did with this particular childe. "Bit too maudlin for my tastes though. I mean, no one likes to be reminded of past tragedies."

His lowered glance at Buffy was like gas to the flame and Angel moved forward, hands clenched, determined to beat an answer out of the other vampire if he had to…

Only to come to an abrupt halt as another person prowled into the room, moving with alien grace, her features frozen in a haughty look the kind soul that had been Winifred Burkle would never have worn. He hadn't caught her scent but then the blood had been overwhelming and he'd been distracted.

"You brought _her_ here?" Buffy demanded, and if Angel's greeting to Spike had been less than warm, hers was downright hostile.

Omnipotent being, demon goddess from millennia passed, Illyria was a little too close to Glory's image for the Slayer's comfort. And once Buffy had learned of her true nature, of her emergence into the 21st century at the cost of Fred's life, she'd been all too eager to make an attempt to bring the former god down.

Angel had managed to dissuade her from going one on one with Illyria, both out of concern over Buffy's welfare at going up against such a powerful opponent and for Illyria herself. Wesley had cared for her, that meant something, and her grief over his apparent death had been all too tangible, the ripped and shredded bodies in that back alley testament to her wrath. No one was irredeemable in Angel's eyes and while Buffy thought his feelings clouded because of her likeness to Fred, he could still see potential in Illyria for good.

Spike grinned as the ancient being regarded Buffy with the disdain one might reserve for a bug, the Slayer watching her with equal animosity. "Well well folks, looks like we might have a cat fight in this hen house after all."

"Spike enough," Angel said, tersely. "Call her off."

"Oh like she's my bloody dog now?"

"You know what I mean. This is neither the time nor the place."

"Hypocrite." But Spike sighed and stepped between both females, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Ok ladies, let's break up it. Put the claws away kittens."

Angel placed a restraining hand on Buffy's arm, feeling the tension thrumming through her. "We're here for these people," he reminded her, quietly, determined to take his own advice at the same time and not drive Spike's head through a wall no matter the provocation.

Buffy blew out a breath and stepped back, apparently willing to call a truce though she kept a wary eye on the former goddess. Illyria for her part continued to look down upon them all with her usual contempt.

"Is Gunn here too?" Though he'd detected no scent of the man, Angel was hoping for his friend's familiar face, his no nonsense attitude and street-wise smarts.

"Nah, still looking for Wes," Spike replied. He jerked a thumb at Illyria, "Kicked me and Blue here off the team, saying we'd compromise his cover at this stage. We're in contact though," he added at Angel's darkening look. "If he needs us he's only got to yell."

"We are tracking the one you call Drusilla," Illyria stated, seemingly bored.

"Dru?" Angel echoed, Spike's opening comments suddenly making sense. "She's behind this?"

"Left a trail of corpses breadcrumb-like all the way from Bolivia," the other vampire said. "Picked up her scent in Trinidad right after Charley boy benched us, been following her North ever since."

"What's her game?"

"Other than ring-around the poxy posies? No idea. But she's been collecting things."

"What things?" Buffy asked.

Spike pulled a tattered piece of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to the Slayer. "Magik stuff for the most part. Haven't been able to make head nor tails of it."

Buffy unfolded the note, scanning its contents, but it was clear from her face the items scrawled there were meaningless to her. "We'll take this to Giles," she announced. "Maybe he can figure out what she's after."

"Add to that a dress once worn by Darla," Angel suggested. "Whatever Dru is up to, I'm guessing it isn't going to be good."

"That's a bleeding understatement," Spike muttered, loud enough for only the other vampire to hear.

OoOoO

Awareness crept upon Connor slowly, bringing with it pain so bad he almost wished for unconsciousness again. Blinking open eyes glued shut, possibly by blood, the room spun with all the craziness of a roulette wheel. With him as the ball.

Biting back the urge to vomit, he lifted his head and instantly regretted the movement when it set new spikes of agony dancing behind his eyes.

Moaning pitifully, he brought his hand up to his head, or tried to. Something cold, heavy and frighteningly unyielding was attached to his left wrist and he tugged weakly, ineffectually at it, before slumping back against the wall in despair.

He used his other hand, free of any restraint, to push away the hair that had fallen over his eyes, surveying the room beyond with open-mouthed disbelief.

Dolls, dozens of them of varying shapes and sizes adorned the walls, propped up and staring hollow-eyed towards the large, empty bed that sat in the middle of the room. Carefully looking to his left, Connor saw more of the children's toys beside him, tiny plastic hands folded over neatly arrayed petticoats and dresses. It was worse than creepy and it was then he caught the scent of something familiar, something that turned his already jittery nerves to icy fear.

Breathing hard, he swung a leaden glance to his right and couldn't prevent the cry of shock that escaped him. A dead woman sat next to him, arrayed just as neatly, just as lifeless as the dolls, a puncture mark marring her neck in a wound he knew would never heal. And she wasn't the lone victim he saw, as various human faces peeked out from the rows, half hidden by their plastic counterparts.

Scrambling away from the closest corpse, setting aside pain in favour of continued survival, Connor tugged frantically at the reinforced steel shackle that held him prisoner. When the restraint refused to break, he turned, planting a foot against the wall and wrapping the chain around his other wrist, attempting to use what strength he could muster to snap the links.

He was stronger than any human but she had known that, he realised, when his efforts came to nothing. The vampire had somehow known exactly who and what he was, which sent his thoughts spinning out over the possibilities. She'd called him little brother, but even though his memories of his previous life were vague, he was certain they'd never met.

"Naughty!"

The word was hissed as a stern reprimand and he jumped in fright, scrambling back against the wall in real fear as his assailant loomed over him. He hadn't heard her, had forgotten one of the most important lessons Angel had ever taught him; vampires didn't need to breathe, to make any sound at all.

"Grandmummy will be ever so cross," she continued, wagging a finger at him.

He knew what she was now, knew what she could do to him while he was weak and chained up, tear out his throat or torture him to death, turn him into one of her corpse dolls. The instinct that had arisen in the parking lot had seemingly abandoned him, leaving him to wonder where the guy who had fought and killed Sahjhan, who had stepped up to bat when Angel was inches away from being dusted, had gone. Wherever he was, he'd left a hurt, scared college kid in his place.

"Please." He didn't care that he was begging, that he was hugging his knees to his chest like a little kid. "Just let me go. I won't…I won't tell. I won't say anything."

She smiled, eyes dark and hungry, bending down to stroke his hair, "Poor baby brother, he doesn't know that mummy is coming home. But all the pretty blackbirds will sing once the pie is open…"

A nail traced a meaningful path down his exposed throat and he shuddered, closing his eyes. "I'm not your brother," he replied, in little more than a whisper.

She giggled at that, then quickly placed a finger over her lips, silencing her own laughter. "Oh but you are my little prince. We are family. The tinkerer revealed his mischief to me and all the knots will come undone once our little black sheep is returned to its pen." She stroked his face with the back of her hand and he jerked away, but she only grinned, unoffended.

His memories, he realised, dully, as she stood and walked around the bed. She was talking about the chance Angel had given him after he'd messed things up so badly it was the only way, to rewrite his history into one where he didn't end up postal.

The vampire was clearly insane herself, but the threat that his new memories might suddenly evaporate, might leave him an empty, psychotic shell once again was almost as bad as the threat to his very life. Would his parents forget him, forget the unconditional love they had lavished upon him? Would his little sister no longer bicker and pout when he wouldn't let her have the remote, no longer cuddle up to him for protection when they watched a scary movie?

Tears now blurred the scene before him, as the woman reverently laid a pale dress upon the bed covers, lovingly stroking the garment as if it was filled, chanting words in a language he couldn't understand. She brought out more items, arrayed them on the bed with the same precision she'd arrayed her dolls, then stooped to lift a brimming pail from underneath the bed.

The crimson wave splashed over everything, ruining whatever purity she'd been attempting to attain as the blood spoiled the dress, the covers, dripped onto the dusty, uncarpeted floor. But she didn't seem disappointed, wanton delight lighting up her eyes as she regarded her work with all the zeal of an artist.

Connor carefully drew a booted foot back as the blood pooled close to him, realising now why there were so many drained corpses littered about the room.

Her chanting had grown steadily louder and she swayed to a silent, internal beat that was almost sexual in its rhythm, her eyes half closed in ecstasy. Somewhere outside the stale room there was a crack of thunder, moments later a blinding flash of light that made Connor duck his head, wincing as it burned white across his retina. It felt as if they were high enough to touch the storm clouds he could see forming, unnaturally fast, outside the broken, grubby window and the very air felt alive with electricity.

When his vision had cleared he looked up to find the vampire had ceased her chanting and was staring down at him with crazy, Halloween eyes. "It's time," she said simply and reached for him.

END OF CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

Title: For One Night Only

Author: Milliecake

Email: PG

Season: Post NFA

Summary: When Drusilla finds a way to resurrect Darla, Angel and Buffy enter a race against time to save Connor from his own mother.

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but it's not like I'd say no if Mr Whedon offered me them

OoOoO

Despite his haggard appearance and evident surprise at being disturbed by Buffy and Angel again so soon, a bright gleam of anticipation had been lit in Giles' eyes the moment Illyria had stalked imperiously into his hotel room. For Angel, it was heartening to see there were still things that could spark the man's inquisitive nature, could break through that world weary, careworn exterior to reveal his undiminished zest for exploring all things extraordinary.

"Remarkable," the Watcher breathed, as he studied the former god with unconcealed fascination, seemingly oblivious to the antipathy that fairly radiated from her being. "I must say I was disappointed when you permitted Illyria to leave with Spike, Angel. The opportunities we at the Watcher's Council would have had to study it could have been of tremendous…"

"Hold your insolent tongue," Illyria cut him off sharply. "Or I will tear it out of your weak and pitiful shell."

If she expected Giles to quail and cower before her at the threat, she was to be disappointed. Years on the Hellmouth had inured him to things most humans were incapable of comprehending, would run screaming, mad with terror, from.

"Yes, quite," was all he said, unflappable. "And perhaps now is not the time. Buffy, you have some information you would like me to look at?"

Reluctantly, the Slayer drew her hot glare from Illyria, furious that she had dared to make such a threat in her presence. "Thought we'd need your brain for this one Giles," she explained, handing over the paper Spike had given her. "We didn't want to wait until morning."

"And you were right not to do so," he said, in growing alarm, adjusting his glasses as he ran down the list. He threw her a sharp look, "Where did you get this?"

"Your friends' killer," Angel replied. After a pause, he added more softly, "It was Drusilla."

"Drusilla? Dear lord." Staring down at the list, Giles frowned.

Angel could imagine only too well what the Watcher was recalling, his confrontation with the powerful, insane vampire years before, the things she had made him do under the guise of Jenny Calendar. The knowledge he had given up to Angelus, the mastermind behind that particularly nasty parlour trick.

"I can't believe she's still out there, after all this time," Giles said, shaking his head.

"Still unalive and kicking," Spike chipped in unhelpfully. "Got to hand it to the crazy bint, she's a survivor."

"No thanks to you," Buffy pointed out, sourly.

"Yes, you had her at your mercy when she was last in Sunnydale," her former Watcher added, "and yet you failed to destroy her."

"I'll have you know I was still evil back then." Spike waved a disgusted hand at Angel. "Anyway, what excuse does broody pants here have when her and Darla were tearing up LA?"

"Hey, I was evil too," Angel retorted, defensively, then wished he could bite his tongue. Squirming slightly under the others' amazed looks, he continued, "Well not _evil _evil. I mean, it was a dark time and…and I was…It wasn't like I didn't try!"

"Tried and failed," Spike summed up. "So no finger pointing unless you're pointing them at us both, ok?"

"Enough, this isn't helping," Giles snapped, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. He went over to the couch and opened his laptop, his most recent concession to the technological age. "I'll need to do some research to confirm my suspicions, but I believe I know what Drusilla might be planning." He took a breath. "Some form of rebirth ritual. By putting together these elements she could, in theory at least, create a hybrid of an ancient summoning circle and providing one has the unabridged Summerian transcripts from the Book of the Unbeing…"

"Alongside Darla's old glad rags," Spike added.

"She could raise the dead," Angel finished, suddenly feeling hollow. He felt them all turn to stare at him, but his gaze remained fixed on Giles. "She's trying to bring Darla back isn't she."

"Again?" Buffy demanded, before the Watcher could reply, sounding more exasperated than worried. "It's just…_again_?"

"Yeah you think Dru would take a hint, but she's persistent, especially when it comes to family," Spike replied, with a shrug. "Maybe third time's the charm."

"You think Darla would be the one to take the hint and stay dead this time," Buffy said, mouth forming into a familiar pout. "I mean, it's just so tacky."

"Aw what's wrong luv?" Spike mocked. "Upset that she might break your coming back from the dead record? Cause if I was you I'd be more worried about her snatching away tall, dark and sucker for undead blondes here."

"Spike," Angel growled.

"Oh like you didn't shag her first opportunity you got when Dru vamped her. After but not before, that just sounds dodgy mate."

But if Spike expected that particularly dirty secret to be a revelation to Buffy or Giles he was to be disappointed. The Watcher's Council had known, of course, they had people stationed in LA at the time of Angel's breakdown to record every sordid detail. As for Buffy…no secrets, no lies they had promised one another.

Angel felt his lover's hand on his arm, squeezing in silent support. "As I said, Spike," he replied, tightly. "It was a bad time."

"More like a good time if you ask me. Unless Darla had lost her touch."

Giles cleared his throat meaningfully, looking up from his research. "Yes, well, if you've all quite finished discussing Angel's sex escapades, I believe I might have discovered a flaw in Drusilla's plan."

"What do you have?" Buffy asked, taking a seat beside her former Watcher to study the laptop's small screen.

It was a far cry from their book researching days, Angel thought, ruefully. Now everything held in the Council library was available at the click of a button or the press of a key. Since its destruction at the hands of the preacher, Caleb, the Council had grasped upon an old idea of Willow's, to store everything except the most dangerous of materials onto internal servers. It was faster, safer and, unfortunately, utterly inaccessible to Angel who still couldn't figure out how to work his voicemail let alone how to enter the 'information highway'.

"She's missing one vital component to the ritual," Giles said, scrolling the page so fast Angel had to blink. The Watcher stabbed a finger at the screen, "Here. To complete the summoning she would need a blood link, the blood in this case being that of the deceased."

Turning, Buffy glanced up at Angel. "Could Wolfram and Hart have kept a sample of Darla's blood from when she was human?"

"If they did it was destroyed when the Beast levelled the building two years ago."

"It would need to be fairly fresh too," Giles said, blithely. "The blood of a close relative, a living sibling or child would do. But as far as we know Darla never had children during her early human years and even if she had, the bloodline by now would be so thinned as to be useless to any sort of..."

Angel never heard the rest of Giles' words, the sudden roaring in his ears drowning out all else, feeling as if his dead, unbeating heart had turned to ice. There was one secret the Watcher didn't know about, that Darla did have a son. A living, breathing human child.

"Oh my God," he breathed, unaware that the others had turned to him, that his shock and fear was an almost tangible thing. "Oh my God, Connor!"

He was vaguely aware of the horror appearing in Buffy's eyes, of Giles' look of puzzled consternation, of Illyria studying him coolly, of Spike hesitantly raising a hand…

"Um, who's the bloody hell is Connor?" the blond vampire asked, blankly.

OoOoO

She was choking him to death. Ruby red nails dug sharply into the tender skin of his throat, her hand near to crushing his windpipe as she forced him to face the bed, her vampire body hard and unyielding behind him. His right arm was still tethered to the wall, pulled taut by the spare amount of chain, but even with the leverage Connor had been no match for her. He had resorted to prying her death grip lose with his free hand, hoping to break at least one of her fingers, but she had stopped that easily enough, grabbing his wrist and yanking it downwards so hard he thought she might have a broken his whole arm.

He didn't stop struggling though, _couldn't_ stop, because he could feel her mouth close to his exposed throat, could smell the stench of blood, knew it would take less than ten seconds for her to bite down and leech his life. He'd never be able to throw her off.

But she hadn't bitten him yet, had cooed at him to cease his efforts, then tightened the grip on his throat when he hadn't, throttling him into near unconsciousness.

Black spots were dancing before Connor's eyes as he desperately sucked in a thin trickle of ozone-laden air, unable to do anything but stand there like a marionette and wheeze, waiting for her to do whatever the hell she wanted. He couldn't plead or beg anymore and that brought on a flash of memory, disjointed and frightening; a girl huddled and crying, pleading to be allowed to go home, her mom would be worried…

A cold tongue laved up the side of his neck and Connor shuddered as the vampire made a gnashing sound with her teeth. "I could eat you all up," she whispered in his ear. "But mummy will want you all unspoilt and pretty. She'd be very cross if I started without her." He tried to throw his head back, break her nose hard enough to loosen her grip, but she slid easily out of the way. "Sssh," she breathed softly into his ear. "Sssh."

There was something in her voice, an undercurrent that gently carried away his resistance, his reason to fight. Blinking back tears, Connor's strength finally deserted him, legs wavering as he collapsed against her. Seemingly satisfied, the vampire turned her head from him to regard the gore-spattered dress. "That won't do at all," she said, crossly.

She brutally twisted his free wrist, holding it out over the bed facing outwards. A long, sharp thumbnail dug in to his skin, found a vein to puncture and Connor cried out, more in shock than any real pain, as his blood spilled in a thick, sluggish line over his palm to his fingers. To drip drip down onto the sheets, onto the dress…

Without warning the vampire flung him away from her, so hard that the shock of hitting the wall made him crumple like paper. Crouched there, breath coming in long, desperate gasps, he dared a glance towards his assailant from beneath ruffled hair.

She was ignoring him now, climbing onto the bed to stroke the blood-soaked dress once more with loving attention, whispering endearments and meaningless, sing-song nursery rhymes. At first Connor thought her lost in nutsville, lost in her own warped delusions.

But the darkness seemed to be growing longer, the shadows on the dolls, on the bodies, shifting. The hair on the back of his neck was rising to an almost painful degree as his instincts cried out for action, fight or flee. The temperature had dropped and he started to shiver, wondering if it was caused by the head wound and blood loss, knowing that was wishful thinking.

_Magic._ The term had always curdled something within Connor, disgust with a hint of exasperation. But it felt as if hell itself was rising within the room, the sound of his own harsh, panicked breaths incongruously loud in the deadening silence.

His gaze was drawn reluctantly, fearfully back towards the bed as he felt a second presence emerge from the surrounding darkness. The bloodied dress was slowly becoming filled, like an empty balloon at a fair, ash coloured dust swirling in the places where there would have been legs and arms and a head.

"Grandmother!" the vampire on the bed cried out, ecstatically.

Connor heard her utter a sharp command and watched as she threw a handful of what looked like dirt down over the…the thing. A blaze of light made him look away, but once it had faded found himself unable to look up. Fear held him as surely as the shackle and Connor found himself hugging his knees, letting his hair shadow his eyes.

"Grandmummy," the vampire said again, this time softer, sounding pleased. "You are back again. And Miss Edith says the tea party can begin once we…"

There came the sound of something being struck, hard, and the vampire broke off with a howl.

"No, mummy don't be cross!" she wailed, as the thumping came hard and fast. "I didn't mean to be bad again!"

Connor didn't want to look up, couldn't, knowing that whatever 'mummy' was doing to the vamp, he'd be next. With the head wound and the blood loss, he'd be no match for the monster, and her next words froze him in place.

"I brought little brother to you! So we could be a family!"

Silence descended then and, shaking, Connor felt a cold hand touch his shoulder, brush the hair back from his brow. He looked up then, unable to remain impassive, preparing to fight til his last breath…

To stare with open-mouthed shock into a familiar face.

"Mom?" he asked, before the thought had even crossed his mind.

The blonde woman – Darla, he corrected himself – gasped, then sank back onto the bed, staring at him with a look he couldn't even begin to fathom.

"Drusilla," his mother spoke, softly, for the first time. "Dru, what have you done?"

The vampire at her back kneeled behind the woman, stroked her face. "I brought him to you, mummy," she breathed, with a smile. "So we can be a family. We can eat him all up, together."

The realisation hit Connor like a truck and he almost cried then. Darla was his mother, but she was a vampire too, shredding the image of her he'd carried with him since the reawakening of his old memories. This wasn't the loving mother in the white dress who had once tried to save him. This Darla had returned a demon, would kill him in a heartbeat.

"Then daddy will come home, away from the nasty Slayer bitch," the other vampire continued, spitefully, then cocked her head. "Can my naughty boy Spike come and play too?"

His mother moved so fast even Connor's preternatural sight could barely keep up. Her fist flew into Drusilla's face and then she was kneeling on top of the other vampire, pounding her head into the bed below.

"I won't let you touch him, Dru!" she shouted in fury.

And all the while Drusilla caterwauled and screamed and pleaded for her mummy to be nice. Darla grabbed her by her dark hair then and rammed her head into the wall, silencing most of her wails, before hopping off the bed.

She stood before Connor, barefoot and clad only in her bloody dress, but before he could move she was on him. He expected ugly death then, but gasped in surprised as she took the chain holding him prisoner and broke it in one, inhuman pull. She grabbed his hand and impatiently tugged him to his feet.

Drusilla was slowly climbing off the bed, her face a gory mask, but Darla punched her once more, knocking her down.

"If you follow us, Dru, I'll kill you," she warned, grimly. Then to Connor, "Come on."

Her hand was cold in his, but with her strength he had no choice but to follow as they ran from the room.

END OF CHAPTER FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

Title: For One Night Only

Author: Milliecake

Email: PG

Season: Post NFA

Summary: When Drusilla finds a way to resurrect Darla, Angel and Buffy enter a race against time to save Connor from his own mother.

Disclaimer: Not mine etc etc

AN: Apologies for the delay in posting, Santa turns into a slave driver this time of year.

OoOoO

"_Children? Can you say jumping the gun? I kill my goldfish."_

Her reply to him all those years ago had been dismissive, light hearted…childish. But Angel had lived for nearly two and a half centuries despite his young appearance and he had known a day would come when the gun would finally catch up with the jumping.

And it had, but not for her.

The discovery that Angel had a child, a son, had been unwitting and ultimately shocking, the betrayal cutting Buffy quick and deep, threatening to tear them apart before they'd even begun.

Reunited, he had taken her back to his old headquarters, the decrepit Hyperion hotel, for space from the world and time together, believing no one would come searching for them there. There was always some crisis, some storm brewing on the horizon, but for two perfect days there was just simply them.

Before it all came tumbling down.

Their love making and tender moments couldn't distract them forever from their hungers and Angel had hit the darkened city streets in search of takeaway, braving the sudden, torrential downpour that had turned the sidewalks slick with rain. Apparently there really was a McPlasma's these days catering to the less discriminating vampires, some entrepreneurial soul starting the business from when the sun had gone out in LA.

Left alone in their large bed, a bored and curious Buffy had risen to explore the hotel. Clad in nothing but one of Angel's old shirts, she'd padded barefoot through the silent hallways, peeking into abandoned rooms, running a careless finger over cracked drywall and peeling wallpaper. She'd stepped carefully over an old bloodstain, one big enough to suggest someone or something might have died in that spot, until finally she'd found an old storeroom, filled high with boxes and an old bed and, to her surprise, a baby's crib.

Sinking to sit cross-legged on the floor, the rain outside drumming a constant rhythm, she had pulled open a box at random, rifling through its contents. She'd been shocked to find these belongings had once been owned by the Sunnydale queen B herself, Cordelia Chase.

The woman's death had saddened Buffy, they'd never exactly been bosom buddies since that first, fateful encounter years before, but they had been through a lot together. Xander had mourned for her certainly, convinced he was somehow cursed that all his ex girlfriends had ended up dead, before Willow pointed to herself as the exception.

And at her funeral, Angel had spoken of how Cordy had gradually changed, had matured from the self-centred teenager into a strong and loving and ultimately wise companion.

The group photos of a smiling Wesley and Cordy and their friend Charles Gunn had come as no surprise, nor had the immaculate sketching of Cordelia, drawn with Angel's gifted hand, though a flutter of jealousy had arisen in Buffy's heart at the attention he had shown the other woman.

What had stunned her was a photo of Cordelia, sitting next to the same crib Buffy even now rested against, a baby clutched in her arms. Her expression of utter joy and loving attention was captured in perfect Polaroid detail. On the back was written a date three years earlier and a name: Connor. And so the questions arose, who did the baby belong to? Was it Cordelia's? A client's? If not then whose was it and where was 'Connor' now?

Angel had returned to find her there, scenting her out, a takeout in one hand and bottle of wine in the other and the look of a deer caught in the headlights when he saw her holding the picture. She knew it was going to be bad then, seeing the agony behind his eyes, recognising his 'something' face.

The takeout had grown cold and forgotten, the bottle of wine almost empty by the time they had finished talking. She cried, he cried. She shouted, he bowed his head and accepted her berating. She talked about Riley, about Spike and the darkness of that time. He echoed that in his explanation over Darla, spoke of the possibility of Cordelia, his brief time with Nina. Lastly he had confessed about the baby, about Connor and his miraculous emergence into the world, his kidnapping, Jasmine and finally his descent into attempted suicide and mass murder.

_It wasn't fair_, had been Buffy's only thought, as they'd clung to one another in that dusty room, too exhausted too talk, to even move. _He should have been mine._

They wandered the hotel like ghosts the next day and night, occasionally passing each other in the hallways, eyes meeting over the lobby counter, only to slide away. Until Angel had confronted her as she was packing, gently taking her shoulders, tilting her chin to raise her eyes to his.

"No secrets, no lies," he had promised her.

She had taken a breath, steadied herself, then nodded, echoing his promise. It hadn't been easy after, but then they'd been through worse, Angelus rampaging through Sunnydale and Buffy sending Angel to Hell. It wasn't a walk in the park, but it wouldn't destroy them either…

And now Buffy was faced with the ghosts of Angel's past all over again, one she would rather remain out of mind and sight, the living reminder that his promise of what could never happen between them was an empty one.

Brushing lightly at an imaginary spot of dirt on her coat, fidgeting uncomfortably under Spike and Giles' expectant stares, Buffy listened as Angel made his frantic phone call to Stanford College. He had the number memorised, she knew.

"…_and what time did they call security_?" he was demanding, impatiently.

Buffy swung her arms, avoiding Giles' raised eyebrows, ignoring the way Spike folded his arms, that knowing look he had in his eyes. He knew she was hiding something, something big and already intuitive, he had become good at reading her.

"Buffy, is there something you'd care to tell us?" Giles asked, and she winced at his directness.

"Tell?" she echoed, innocently, stalling for time. "Um, nothing…nothing that comes to mind…right now."

"_Oh my God, so he is missing._"

_Hurry up Angel_, she thought, knowing her delaying tactics were wearing thin on the others' patience. But whatever Angel chose to tell them about Connor, it had to come from him. She'd once made him a promise never to reveal his secret, not even to her closest friends. And she understood the importance of that oath. She'd done much the same in protecting Dawn, how could she fail Angel in his attempt to do the same to protect his own child.

"Right, come on, out with it luv," Spike said, abruptly. "Who's this Connor person and why has broody pants got his knickers in a twist over him?"

Buffy frantically attempted to come up with another stall, opened her mouth to reply…

"He is Angel's son."

If Giles' eyebrows could climb any higher they would have disappeared into his hairline. Spike swivelled a glance at Illyria, then looked back at Buffy who still had her mouth hanging open. How could she have forgotten Angel's warning that the former god also knew of Connor?

"We don't say son, 'Lyri," Spike corrected. "In our line of work we say childe. Vampires can't have proper kids anyhow."

_Lyri_? Buffy questioned silently, wondering why the pet name didn't seem to antagonise the proud demon.

Illyria's strange blue eyes fixed upon Spike, her head cocked. It was hard to tell if she was curious or furious at his tone. "Yet this one was reproduced in the human manner."

"No, no, you must mean adopted son," Giles said, shaking his head. "After all, the birth of a child to a vampire would be an extraordinary event, not to say impossible."

"It was."

They all turned as Angel, having hung up the phone, rejoined the group. He had an expression on his face not unfamiliar to Buffy, an incongruous mixture of terror and determination. She'd felt it all those times Dawnie was in danger, how she could feel so incredibly powerful and yet so utterly weak at the same time. It was the price of daring to love in their dangerous world.

"_He _was," Angel corrected himself, softly. He reached out and Buffy took his cold hand. "Connor is my son and somehow Dru found out. And now he's in danger."

"But…how?" Giles asked, seemingly at a loss. "I don't understand any of this."

"It's a long story, one we don't have time for," Angel replied. "That night I spent with Darla, it resulted in a baby, my son…"

"Oh ho!" Spike jumped in, mockingly. "So you somehow knocked Darla up did you? Bet she didn't appreciate that." He glanced at Buffy and seemed almost disappointed. "And you still chose him? He told you you'd never have a family with him and here he was all the time, setting up house with his old bit of fluff."

"Buffy you knew about this…this child?" Giles demanded, before she could respond. She could see the displeasure on his face, the fact that she hadn't told him, hadn't trusted him.

"She knew," Angel cut in, stepping between her and her former watcher. "And I made her promise not to tell you, any of you. But you in particular Giles. It wasn't easy for her and I hated asking her to keep this secret, so if you're angry, be angry with me not her."

Buffy squeezed his hand, appreciating the gesture. He knew Giles was like the father she'd always craved. Caring, attentive, not abandoning his family to jet off to Paris with a secretary in a short skirt and half his age…

She cut off that line of thinking, knowing her real father wasn't worth even her anger no matter how much Dawn still thought of him. Maybe Giles hadn't been the ideal replacement, after all how many fathers sent their children off to fight monsters every night, but he was a constant and brave man, one she respected, one she had hated lying to.

The Watcher looked taken aback at Angel's words. "I can assure you, your secret…"

"Would have been all over the Watcher's Council," the vampire interrupted. "It's your duty to report these things Giles, otherwise you'd have ended up in Buffy's shoes."

"Don't think they'd fit him," Buffy put in, giggling, attempting to break the awkward tension. When no one responded, she cleared her throat and found something on the wall to look at.

"I wanted him to have a normal life," Angel continued, waving his hand to encompass them all. "Away from vampires and demons. I couldn't do that if people knew about him. My enemies could track him down, the Watchers would want to study him. I didn't want that for him," he finished, sounding sad.

"So the little nipper is missing," Spike summed up, after a brief moment of silence. "And we think Dru took him. Where was he kidnapped from, his home or a creche?"

"Stanford College," Angel replied, glumly, too worried for the usual paternal pride.

Spike paused, deadpan. "Bright kid eh? Must take after his mum."

"He's not…" Buffy began, then looked to Angel for permission to continue. "He's not a baby Spike, he's nineteen."

"Twenty," Angel corrected, slumping slightly at the thought of missing yet another of his son's birthdays.

"Bloody hell, what we living in a soap opera now?" Spike exclaimed. "Was he born or did he burst out of poor Darla fully grown?"

"Hey this is my kid you're talking about," Angel said angrily, offended. "He didn't burst…there was no bursting ok? Well, Darla did, kind of. She staked herself so Connor could be born. He was a baby, but he got taken from me by Daniel Holtz and ended up spending his childhood in a hell dimension. He grew up there, but time moved differently, so when he came back a few days later he was a teenager."

"All the Watchers journals state that Holtz staked Darla then died of his injuries," Giles said, sounding bewildered.

"And that's how I'd like to keep it," Angel told him, with a meaningful look. After a moment, Giles nodded reluctantly. "And we're wasting time talking about this when we should be out there looking for him and Drusilla."

"If she's resurrecting Darla, she'll want a high spot," Spike said, after a brief moment, falling into a more professional demeanour.

"But not too far from the College itself," Angel added, sounding pleased that his childe was onboard. "Somewhere in the Palo Alto area."

"Or maybe closer to the Bay."

"Giles start checking for abandoned buildings." Angel gestured to the laptop. "She wouldn't have the time or resources to rent. Look for high places, towers, bridges."

"This isn't really my forte," the Watcher protested, but slid onto the couch and began to type. "But I'll do my best."

Buffy gently pulled Angel to one side, hating what she was about to say. "Angel, even if we know what we're looking for the Bay area is huge. And there's nothing to say she's even there…"

"I know," he replied, surprising her. "That's why you're going to contact Willow, see if she can do some kind of locator spell and narrow the search down for us."

"But…"

"No buts," he hushed her gently, then, unable to hide the anguish, "This is my son Buffy. I lost him once. And if Dru…"

Now it was her turn to hush him, placing a finger over his lips. "We'll find him," she said, leaving no room for doubt, and picked up the hotel phone.

"What about me and Blue here?" she heard Spike ask.

And couldn't suppress a slight smile at Angel's mischievous if worryingly vague reply. "Actually, I have a special job for you Spike."

OoOoO

Her strength was incredible, her hold on his hand tight and unrelenting as she dragged him, unresisting, upwards. Connor finally stumbled, weak and exhausted, out onto the tower's parapet, the chain fencing separating visitors from a dizzying fall having long ago been torn away by vandals and age.

His mother released his hand, instead walked to the very precipice as she gazed out over the city beyond, the sparkling lights, the dark and silent ocean to the west.

"It's so beautiful," she said, in a soft, sweet voice, hugging her arms as if cold. "I must have been gone years but it hasn't changed at all…"

Straightening with the aid of the crumbling wall, Connor limped closer to her, appreciating what she was seeing. He'd always loved a view, high up over the houses and people, nothing but the cityscape stretching before him. Now he knew where that love had come from.

"You haven't been gone that long," he said, with a shrug when she glanced at him. "It's complicated."

"It always is, honey," she replied, wryly. She studied him for a moment, her eyes cool and assessing. "So what did he call you?"

"Connor," he answered and she snorted.

"Great." She didn't sound too impressed and instead turned back to her view.

"And you're my mother," he added, carefully. He still didn't know what to make of that, of her. From what his shaky memories told him, Darla had been every inch as vicious as Angelus, not exactly the mothering type. "I think we might have met once."

She raised a condescending eyebrow at that. "Don't think so kiddo, been dead all this time remember?"

He wrinkled his forehead as he tried to remember, but it had been a bad time and the dark ones were always the hardest, flittering on the edge of his dreams but never his waking mind. "You were there, like you are now. You were trying to tell me not to do something…something terrible I think."

Darla laughed at that, light and breezy. "Then it sure as hell wasn't me, I'd have been the one urging you on kid."

"Yeah I guess."

They stood there for a little while, Connor in uneasy silence as he watched his mother. Finally she spoke.

"You still bleeding over there?" she asked, harshly, and his heart gave a strange little jump, wondering if that really was maternal concern, vampire style.

"I'll be ok," he said, smiling a little cockily. "I heal fast, just like you and Da…like Angel."

"That's great, really," she responded, sarcastically. "But I haven't fed yet and you're starting to smell like dinner so…"

"Oh." Deflated, he wiped a sleeved over his aching head, hoping to get rid of most of the blood, but succeeded in reopening his wounded wrist. "Ow!"

"Oh for God's sake! Here."

She moved so fast, grabbing his arm and his instincts flared up. He placed a hard hand on her wrist without thinking, halting her movement.

"Honey, if I was gonna eat you, you'd already be in my stomach," Darla said, mockingly, pulling easily out of his grip. She ripped a bloody shred from her dress, slapped it over his wrist and wound it tight, her manner perfunctory.

Connor glanced up at her through his hair as she worked, watching the expression on her beautiful face, wondering what he was hoping to see there. He knew she was a vampire, that she was evil and would kill in a heartbeat, but right now the moment reminded him nothing more than when his adoptive mother would put a band aid over his childhood scrapes and scratches.

"I'm not that easy to kill," he said, quietly, without thinking. Jeez, where had that come from? No sense provoking her or giving her ideas. "I mean, I can take care of myself."

She looked his bloodied and battered frame up and down, hands on her slim hips, then pushed him in the chest, sending him back a few unsteady steps. "Yeah, I can see that. Dru did a number on you, but don't sweat it, sweetie. That girl has some powerful magic, can make a man do things even _I'd_ be ashamed of."

Connor rubbed at his bandaged wrist as she turned away from him and sat down near the edge, legs drawn up. He could run, could be halfway down the stairs before she could even get to her feet if he hopped the balcony. But the other vampire, Dru, was down there, somewhere. Somehow, he felt strangely safer with his mother, even knowing what she was.

So instead of running, he limped over to where she sat and took a seat beside her, legs dangling out over the edge. He figured he had a good chance of surviving the fall if she attacked him and he was forced to take the plunge.

"I think the bleeding's stopped," he said, into the silence, fingering the bandage.

"I didn't ask." After a few long moments. "You seem like you turned out ok. Must be Angel's disgustingly good influence. I was rooting for scourge of mankind, but hey, they say kids will always disappoint you."

"Really? I mean, about the whole scourge thing? Cause you know, it kinda almost ended up like that." At her inquiring look, Connor continued, sheepishly, "Well, not in a way you'd want I guess. I didn't grow up with Angel as my dad either."

"He gave you up?" Now it was her turn to sound surprised, then disgusted. "Let me guess, he told you he wanted to protect you from the big bad nasties out there so he hands you over to a mom and pop who won't look at you like you're lunch."

"Not really, I was kidnapped. Grew up in a hell dimension. Except, to me, I didn't. Like I said…"

"Complicated, I got it. So who took you?"

Connor took a moment to reply. Sometimes, it was hard to speak the name. "A man named Holtz."

"_Daniel _Holtz?" Incredulous, she shook her head. "That son of a bitch, I can not believe that after all I went through he just let that man waltz in and…" Her fists clenched in anger.

"Hey it's ok," Connor put in, quickly, putting a hand on her arm. "I mean, at the time it wasn't. I don't remember all of it clearly and I never asked Angel for the details or anything. I think I tried to kill him, quite a few times actually," he added with a sheepish smile.

And now Darla laughed, the sound musical in the night air. "He must have loved that, daddy issues all over again. Hell, if I believed in Karma I'd say Angel was reaping his just rewards."

"But he fixed me," Connor said, the sudden closeness of tears catching him by surprise. All the memories, the emotions they were dragging up, he didn't quite know how to handle them, had never really tried. "Despite the things I did. Gave me another chance, another childhood. I grew up with normal people, with a normal life. Just, sometimes these other memories pop up and freak me out…"

He shrugged, trying to appear dismissive, and was surprised to feel her hand on his head, absently stroking his hair. He glanced at her but she wasn't even looking at him. He smiled then, daring to shift subtly closer to his undead mother and for a time they watched the winking city lights in a companionable silence.

END OF CHAPTER FIVE


	6. Chapter 6

Title: For One Night Only

Author: Milliecake

Email:

Rating: PG

Season: Post NFA

Summary: When Drusilla finds a way to resurrect Darla, Angel and Buffy enter a race against time to save Connor from his own mother.

Disclaimer: Not mine etc etc

AN: I think my love of this fandom has been resurrected about as many times as Buffy!

OoOoO

"He's reduced me to a bloody bloodhound." Scuffing at the ground with his biker's boot, Spike waited at the side of the dusty, closed road. Illyria cocked her head at him, so with a sigh he elaborated, "A kind of pooch that tracks things down by scent."

"And Angel has made you this leashed...pooch," she surmised.

He raised an eyebrow at that. "You wish."

She ignored him, striding passed Spike's Harley. "Angel's witch said we are close."

"Yup." Shoving his hands into his pockets, Spike looked up the starry sky, wondering if Willow could somehow see them now. "And I can smell her. Dru that is. And Angel's kid most probably, bleeding all over the place. But the trail ends here." Illyria started walking up the road. "Hey wait, where do you think you're going?"

Even though she could toss him aside with a flick of her wrist, she paused. "We should find this one called Drusilla and return Angel's son to him."

"Oh no," he shot back, shaking his head. "Angel said to wait here for him and Buffy. You go rushing in there and get his spawn killed, I'll never hear the end of it." He effected a whiny tone "'Oh Spike, how could you let Illyria get my son murdered! Now I'll have to become even more broody and avenging'."

The ancient god stared at him with her unflinching blue eyes. "I do not find your insolence amusing."

"Really? I thought it was a good impression, one of my best..."

The faint rumbling sound of an engine turned both god and vampire long before the car came into view, supernatural hearing warning both of the approach. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the headlamps as it rounded the bend fast, Spike saw Buffy in the driving seat and mentally chuckled at that. Some things never changed. Same woman, just a different vampire in the side car.

Angel exploded out of the rental before it had even stopped, stalking towards Spike and Illyria.

"You got the scent?" he demanded.

"Yup," Spike said, cocking his head down the road. "She's here, somewhere."

"Giles found a few possibilities where she might have holed up," Buffy added, getting out of the car in a more sedate fashion, popping the trunk. "We brought some supplies."

"Good idea," Spike replied. "If Dru has brought Darla back..."

"Then we'll need everything we've got to send her back to hell," Angel finished, grimly.

Spike was taken aback. "That was cold," he pointed out.

Angel was silent for a moment, then said quietly. "I made her a promise. I'll never let her hurt our son."

"And since Darla wasn't exactly known for her maternal extincts..." Spike began.

"Be silent!" Illyria stood facing the road, staring into the dark. She spoke with the force of a god expecting full obedience from her peons.

"I was just saying," Spike complained, "if you knew Darla she had this thing about babies..."

"No, she's right," Angel cut him off, moving to stand beside the ancient being. "Listen."

Buffy, the only one of the three without preternatural hearing, came up to them, cautiously holding a wooden stake. Finally she could hear it, somewhere out in the dark, a woman was singing incongruous pieces of a discordant, melancholy nursery rhyme.

"..._Then you show your little light, twinkle, twinkle all the night_.  
_Then the traveller in the dark, thanks you for your tiny spark_..."

"It's her," Angel warned as a wan, slender figure weaved out onto the road, drawn by the beam of the headlights. "It's Drusilla."

"_She could not see which way to go, if you did not twinkle so..._"

"Dru love," Spike called to her, and her large, dark eyes lit up upon seeing her former lover and childe.

Drusilla's singing halted as she held her arms out to Spike. "My sweet Spike," she cajoled. "You've come back to our family. And you've brought daddy."

OoOoO

Angel moved fast, so fast Buffy barely saw much more than a blur. One moment Drusilla was standing before them, arms open, the next she was grabbed by the throat, then tossed towards the car. There was a long pause, before the airborn vampire crashed onto the bonnet of the rental, smashing the windscreen.

"Bloomin' eck," Spike started, as Angel strode menancingly towards Drusilla. "You don't mess around."

"Not with this. Not with my son," Angel fairly growled and the fine hairs on the back of Buffy's arm stood up. He sounded terrifyingly close to Angelus at that moment.

"Daddy!" Drusilla wailed as he grabbed her once more by the throat, then slammed her back down, crushing her into the bonnet.

"That's right," he told her, harshly. "But not yours. Where..." Another slam. "Is..." Slam. "My son?"

Drusilla clawed at the hand pinning her, then slumped back. She started to giggle, then laugh hysterically.

"Always was one card short of a full deck our Dru," Buffy heard Spike comment to Illyria.

The slayer stepped forward and without word handed Angel her stake. Drusilla fell silent and went very still, eyes fixed with snake-like precision upon her sire as he raised the killing weapon.

"Now hold on a minute!" Spike grabbed Angel's wrist. "You can't just stake her. Not like that."

Angel didn't take his eyes off his insane childe. "You know what she is Spike. You know what she's done."

"You stake her and you might never find your kid," Spike retorted. "Let me try. She'll talk to me."

For a moment, Buffy was unsure which vampire would win out, she could sense the tension in her lover, sense Spike's distress at Drusilla being staked. Illyria watched them all with aloof disdain.

Slowly, Angel unwound his hand from Drusilla's throat, flexing the fingers. "Two minutes Spike."

And that was all. Spike helped Drusilla up, put his arm around her shoulders as she hissed at Buffy.

"Come on love," he said, as kindly as he could. "You want us back together as a family don't you?"

"It's all gone wrong, Spike," she moaned. "Grandmummy was so angry with me. I don't know what I did wrong!"

_So she's back_, Buffy realised. Darla had been undusted.

"Ssh ssh," Spike soothed. "You didn't do anything wrong. See, look me and Angel are here aren't we? We're back together. But we need to find Darla and the bra...," at Angel's dark look, "...er I mean the kid."

Drusilla's gaze fell upon Illyria. "Such eyes," she crooned. "Like sapphires. But it's all blind, all dark."

"This one speaks foolishness," the god announced, imperiously.

"Spike, as fascinating as this is..." Angel snapped impatiently.

"Dru love," Spike said, to regain her attention. "The boy Dru, where is he? Where's Darla too for that matter?"

"High up," she answered, giggling. "In a tower. And the princess let her hair down, falling like a stream to the boy below."

"Tower." Angel thought for a moment. "A water tower?" he demanded suddenly, grabbing her.

"There was one on Giles' list," Buffy said, urgently. "It's not far."

Throwing Drusilla back into Spike's arms, Angel pointed the stake at his childe. "Take care of her Spike. You know what to do."

"Now Daddy's here," Drusilla whispered, viciously, covering her mouth, eyes wide in glee.

Spike nodded, looking away. "Come on love," he told his insane sire. "If you're good I'll let you watch Blue here beat me up."

"I'd like that, darling Spike," she replied, with a smile.

Illyria hesitated, then at Angel's look followed the two vampires into the trees. She'd see that it was done.

END OF CHAPTER SIX


End file.
